Paper Sketches
by J. Cassia-Rendthal
Summary: God, Sam shouldn't have been so reckless. Dean thanked whatever 'higher power' there was that his brother escaped uninjured... but did he? What is Sam not telling his brother? In which Sam hides his pain from Dean with disastrous consequences. Hurt!Sam and Protective!Dean
1. Chapter 1

_**Hey guys!**_

 _ **This fic takes place near the beginning of season two. So obviously, there's going to be a spoiler for episode 1. If you haven't seen that yet, I suggest you catch up! Anyway, please enjoy!**_

" _Sam! No!"_ Dean called, rushing to shove his brother aside from the wrath of the vengeful spirit. His brother was a direct target now – having saved Dean by created a loud ruckus to distract the ghost. _How could he be so reckless? He's in danger now!_

In an instant, Dean's attempt to save his brother was destroyed as he was flung against the wall, his head banging against the brick like he was weightless. The ghost continued its pursuit of Sam, who was now scrambling for his shotgun, cast aside earlier as he tried to get the spirit's attention away from Dean.

"Dean! - shit!" Sam cried, as he too was thrown, colliding with a large glass cabinet. Broken shards rained down upon him, digging into his skin and drawing out small beads of blood from the scarred surface. The ghost disappeared, but seconds later bricks went flying from where they lay scattered on the floor, one hitting Sam directly in the ribs and he groaned as he felt a crack, pain exploding throughout his torso.

 _Suck it up, son!_ John's voice echoed through his head, the four words that he used to say to Sam after every hunt – then, irritating and without compassion but now, encouragement to save his brother. He had to do this.

He bit back a cry as he rolled himself onto his stomach, using his elbows to drag himself forward. The pain from his head – from his back and ribs too – was almost too much for him to deal with, and the sinister threads of unconsciousness tugged at his mind, willing him to give in. He didn't. He had to succeed, or surely Dean would be killed by the ghost.

He could almost reach his shotgun, it was at most a meter away, and never was Sam more grateful for his long limbs as he gave one last push forward then extended an arm, just grabbing the gun and spinning it round in time to shoot at the spirit that had reappeared. It vanished again, this time with a wail. It bought Sam enough time to pull himself to his feet – his body screaming at him the whole time to just _give up,_ to lie down on the ground for the spirit to find and put an end to. _It hurt so bad..._

As if through mud or quicksand, he dragged each foot across the ground, pausing only as he heard a slight rustle from behind him. It was a rat, not the ghost. He breathed a sigh of relief, only to wince and groan slightly as he felt the pressure on his ribs intensify. He knew he had fractured at least one, in some way. He hoped it wasn't really that bad. There would definitely be bad bruising on his back and a lump would form on his head from where he hit it, but right now, none of that mattered. He had to get to Dean.

Dean was still deeply under, and when Sam reached him he had to debate how to do this. He couldn't call an ambulance – that was never the ideal choice. Besides, he had high hopes that Dean's was only a mild head injury. The impala wasn't that far away... On a normal day, Sam would insist on hauling Dean's ass over his shoulder, but with his body so badly hurt Sam didn't want to risk collapsing under his brother's weight. Which left one option... he would just have to drag Dean out.

He grabbed a hold of his brothers arms, giving one large heave and pulling him away from where he had been left in a heap on the floor. _Sorry Dean..._ he thought as he began to dragging his brother out of the old, abandoned house. Thankfully, the impala was closer than he thought, proving to be only a second's walk away from where they were. Sam prayed that the spirit was unable to leave the house – another attack right now was not what they needed.

They should have done more research, really. No matter how much Sam insisted on finding as much information as they could Dean would have none of it. So they went in, guns blazing and no idea where that son of a bitch was buried. Sam regretted not persisting now, but he knew it wouldn't have done any good. After their dad's death, Dean was on a roll, a violent and dangerous rampage and Sam knew better than to get in the way. He knew his brother didn't mean it when he lashed out at Sam, that he was hurting, but god... Dean didn't have some half cruel things to say.

Not that their arguments mattered right now. All Sam was focussed on way getting Dean in the impala and driving off to their motel and not returning until the older hunter was healed and he was satisfied with the amount of information they had on the spirit.

Thankfully, getting his brother into the car wasn't as difficult as he had imagined. Dean sat, still unconscious and riding shotgun while Sam dug around in the back for some bandages.

…

Dean woke up a half hour later. They were back in the motel, and his head was throbbing. Raising a hand, he felt along the side of his face until he felt the familiar soft feel of bandages – his little brother's work, he imagined.

Speaking of which, where was Sam?

Dean sat up, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness rolled over his. He swung his legs over the side of the bed stood up, allowing himself a moment to regain his composure. He remembered what had happened, and anger washed over him when he thought of Sam again.

Where the _hell_ was Sam?

The idiot had put himself in so much danger – God, it was like he had a death wish! Dean had the ghost handled, he had his shotgun ready and was prepared to blast its brains out when Sam had called out. He wasn't even armed – so _stupid._

So many thoughts had raced through Dean's mind at that point: the majority of which screamed _"No!"_ \- he couldn't lose his brother too, just after he had lost his father. Surely then, he would break. He knew he had been tough on Sam these past few weeks after John had died, but being pissed was easier than grieving and Dean was in no mood these days for chick flick moments. He probably should apologize at some point, but right now, Dean didn't know whether to do that or to swing one at his brother for putting himself in harm's way.

It was then that he noticed the shower was running. Sam was probably just cleaning up – he had managed to get Dean here anyway, so he knew that his little brother couldn't be that hurt. All worries flung out the window at this realisation he began to pace the room, his mind conjuring up things he could say to his brother that would knock some sense into him without actually _having_ to knock it in.

The water turned off a minute later, and his brother came back into the room. Dean was surprised to see him fully clothed, especially after a shower. Sam normally wore sweats and sometimes a t-shirt after a hunt, not his jacket and jeans too.

"Going somewhere?" Dean asked bitterly. Sam looked up, as if not expecting his brother to be awake yet.

"No..." He frowned, "But I'm glad to see you're awake. How's your head?"

Sam moved to sit on his bed. Dean chose to ignore how stiff and wooden his movements were and continued to berate his brother.

"How's yours? Because it must have been hit quite hard for you to make a decision like that! You could have been seriously hurt, Sam! Why didn't you let me deal with the ghost?!"

 _Oh,_ Sam thought. _So that's what this is about._

"The ghost was going straight for you! What was I supposed to do?" Sam asked angrily.

"Leave me to fix it, dammit!" Dean shouted back.

It didn't take long before the argument escalated further, ending in Dean storming out the motel and surely heading down to some local bar to pick up some girl. Sam knew that he probably wouldn't be back tonight.

Groaning, Sam sat down from when he had stood up earlier during their fight. His head was aching horribly, a sharp, agonizing pain worming its way from his back to his skull and he wished he had brought in some painkillers from the impala. Dean had the keys, so it was too late to get them now anyway – not that he could. His limbs were too weak, and rolled onto his back, not bothering to take off his jacket. If he did, Dean would probably see the bulk of the bandages under Sam's thin shirt, and wonder where they were from.

Would he have told his brother about his injuries had they not argued? Probably not. They had fought far too much recently and Sam didn't want to cause Dean any more worries of pain than he already had... so it was best to keep quiet. If he kept an eye on them, his ribs should heal nicely under the bandages and he just needed to make sure his back remained protected for a while – he didn't want the bruising that was already starting to form blue and black splodges to get any worse. As for his head... well, it wasn't really that bad. It would hurt for a few days and heal itself, hopefully.

Sam knew he _should_ tell Dean, get them to stop hunting for a bit while they both healed. But he really didn't want to seem as if he were whining, something Dean _had_ accused him of before this hunt. So Sam settled down on his bed, preparing for a restless night's sleep.

…

When Sam awoke in the morning, Dean still wasn't back. Sam tried not to think back to last night's argument, but it was really difficult when the words bounced around his head without stopping – making it hurt more than it already did.

Slowly, he began to sense pain prickling up his spine. Before he could move, it turned into full out agony and Sam let out a pitiful wail as he remembered that he didn't have any painkillers. He shifted briefly, which turned out to be a huge mistake. More pain erupted but this time in his head. He regretted not telling Dean now, for his brother would be a comfort right now even if he wasn't in the best of moods.

Deciding to get up, Sam slowly turned on the bed and stood up, his muscles protesting all the way but only when he rose at full height did it become bad -

Unable to hold the pain, or his own weight, Sam collapsed to the ground.

…

Dean surprised himself when he hadn't spent the night with a girl he picked up in the local bar. Sure, he had gotten shit-faced drunk and hit on a few chicks, but he had decided that he didn't want a hook up that night. Instead, he had slept in the impala, making use of the blanket they kept in the back in case they didn't have a motel for the night.

His head still hurt – he had hit it pretty hard, anyway... or maybe it had something to do with the amount of drinks he knocked back yesterday. Probably.

He opened the car door and climbed out into the already warm morning, stretching his muscles out. Now he had to face Sam. He hoped the kid had his act together now, maybe he'd even apologize for being so reckless. Sam was a peacekeeper, so no doubt he'd try to make amends. It was a new day... maybe Dean would try as well.

He walked briskly into the motel lobby, ascended the stairs and opened the door, shocked to hell that he didn't find it it locked.

He was even more shocked at what he saw next.

 _ **So, what do you think? Should I continue, or should I scrap it? Thanks for taking the time to read, anyway!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**One word: wow. I really didn't expect so much positive feedback and kindness about my writing! You all made my day so much brighter – I didn't think my writing would get so much response... so thank you!**_

 _ **Hope you enjoy the chapter!**_

 _ **...**_

 _ **Ten years ago...**_

" _Suck it up, son!" John Winchester yelled at his youngest, who was stifling the tears that threatened to run freely down his cheeks. At only thirteen, Sam hadn't gotten used to the fear and the pain that came with hunting, having mostly dealt with research for his brother and his father. Of course, he was already tough as nails... after all, this kid had taken down bullies in a few swift moves but by no means did that prepare him for a hunt. This one in particular had left him wounded badly, and without pain medication available so far out in the middle of nowhere, Sam was left to bear through receiving stitches with nothing to numb the hurt._

 _Dean was watching from the corner, his eyes worriedly roaming his brother's bare back as John stitched. He hated to see Sammy in pain, especially as he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. If it were up to him, Sam would be in a hospital by now. But it wasn't up to him... it was up to their dad. He knew what was right. They would be okay if they just followed his orders._

 _Besides, it wasn't as if they would be able to find a hospital around here._

 _Dean knew that his father was being a little harsh on Sammy. But John was in a bad mood – the hunt had left all of them a little hurt and had been only a few seconds away from going completely, horribly wrong._

 _No matter what John said, Dean refused to believe that it had been Sam's fault. Sure his little brother had mucked up a bit, but in no way did the treatment he was getting now serve as repentance._

 _Dean wouldn't blame Sam. That would upset him, and he wouldn't do that to his brother. No matter what, Sam always came first._

 _ **Five years ago...**_

" _If you walk out that door... don't you ever come back!"_

 _The door slammed shut._

 _And that was it, really. There wasn't much more Dean could do. He had tried to stop his brother from leaving, but to no prevail._

 _Dean knew full well how much Sam wanted his higher education. And when Sam had his mind set on something, there wasn't much chance that you would be able to persuade him otherwise, especially not John's harsh words. Dean probably could have tried harder to stop Sam from going, he liked to think there was more chance that his brother would listen to him, but Dean already knew the reason that he didn't. Anyone in their position would want to go to college, and Sam had the perfect opportunity..._

 _Sam came first, didn't he? And if this was what he wanted..._

 _ **A few weeks ago...**_

" _Piss off, Sam!" Dean shouted at his brother. He was not at all in the mood for one of his brother's 'talks'. He was coping with their dad's death in his own ways, and they certainly did not include discussing it in detail like Sam wanted to. He just wished his brother would stop whining, maybe do something productive other than mope._

 _Honestly, it was as if Sam was trying to annoy Dean. Dean knew he shouldn't but right now he couldn't help but resent his brother a little. He had had the perfect life, not caring for their family at all until something bad happened. What did that say about him? Sam was trying too hard to make everything right now that their dad was gone, but it was too late: didn't Sam understand that? Their dad was dead, dammit, and there wasn't any level of remorse or reconciliation that could fix it. Sam should have tried harder whilst John was still living. It probably would have made their life so much easier._

 _Wait, what?_

 _Wasn't that a bit... extreme? Did Dean really think that? Guilt washed over him as he recalled all his thoughts, wincing at the words he said to Sam. He shouldn't have been so cruel... he wasn't like this with his brother, was he?_

 _At what point had Sam stopped coming first?_

… _At what point had Dean stopped calling Sam 'Sammy'?_

 _ **Now...**_

It was a nice day, sun shining through the window that led into the office of the motel. The motel manager sat lazily at his desk, smiling as he bit into the large, greasy burger that he had waited all day for. Finally, he had allowed himself to break his healthy diet, succumbing to the local McDonald's without hesitance.

Before he could actually eat any more, he heard a distressed shout from upstairs. Groaning, he stood up. He hoped it wasn't another person who was scared of spiders. He couldn't be bothered to clean out the attic's new infestation, and he had been getting complaints a lot recently.

Hobbling up the stairs slowly, he only quickened his pace after he heard the panicked "Someone call nine-one-one!", seemingly a woman's voice.

He arrived at the scene, shock playing loudly across his features as he took everything in:

A few of the motel guests had gathered in this room, fretting and panicking. One of them must have been the one that shouted, he presumed. He knew these guests didn't belong in this room – theirs were a few doors down.

In the middle of the room were two men. One, huddled over the larger, who lay on the floor. The motel manager didn't think he had ever seen that amount of fear on someone's face... ever. The shorter man looked like his whole world had shattered – like the light had given in to the shadows. It scared the motel manager, how could there be so much love between two people for one of them to look as such? He had never seen anything like it. He handled the other with such care, like a parent would comfort their child. The motel manager felt the sudden need to look away – this felt like such a private moment, he shouldn't be intruding. But he couldn't, there was something so enrapturing about the two. He wondered if he'd ever see such a thing again... he the bond between them was almost palpable.

The man who wasn't unconscious was gently lifting the shirt of the other one, obviously assessing for damage.

It was as if someone had taken a palette of paints, swirled them all together to create mottled blues and blacks then painted it onto to this young man's back. The motel manager could see where the man must have taken the most damage – those areas were almost completely black. It was disturbing, that this should happen to someone of such a young age – the kid must have been in his early twenties. The older inhaled sharply, devastation playing shadows across his features. In this moment, he looked as old as it was possible for anyone to be, the lines on his face darkening with figurative age. The motel manager was surprised he didn't collapse under the weight of what he appeared to be feeling.

Looking away finally, he came to his senses. He had been too focussed on the two men when he knew he should be doing his duty – calling the emergency services.

As he left the room hurriedly, he wondered: would he ever care for someone so much himself?

…

He couldn't decide whether he felt like he had been submerged or like someone had set fire to his blood. Everything felt so numb, so ethereal that surely he couldn't be experiencing it. His body ached to just stop, to not go any further and to just lie down. _Lie down. Next to Sam._ At the same time, every part of his being screamed at him to save his brother – that Sam wouldn't die here, not now. He felt sick, his body prepared to expel whatever had caused such a horrible hallucination.

 _But it's not a hallucination. Sam needs your help._

 _Get to Sam. Help Sam. Sam comes first._

 _Sam comes first._

 _Get your shit together._

He snapped out of his phase as he heard the shrieking of sirens, drawing nearer by the second. He went to check for his little brother's pulse again, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat when he noticed it was very weak.

Dean didn't want to roll Sam onto his back, but he desperately needed to check if there were any other injuries. So he lightly held the back of Sam's head while he gently pushed his brother onto his back. But as he did he felt a strange, abnormality on his brother's head.

 _Oh god..._

He ran his fingers lightly around the bump, feeling dried and clotted blood sticking Sam's hair to his scalp. This must have been what caused Sam to fall, but where did he get it in the first place? Dean had been under the impression that Sam hadn't gotten hurt on the hunt, but these injuries begged to differ. Dean knew that Sam had taken a shower after their hunt which would have washed away all the dried blood, and if Sam had stitched it or taken proper care of it it shouldn't have bled as much as it did. Did Sam not bother to take care of himself? Sam had always been so self-aware that he insisted on treating his own problems... at what point did he stop?

Probably when Dean did.

 _No._ Dean couldn't blame himself for this. He couldn't blame his lack of care for his brother for this, but _God,_ he did. Sam knew better than to leave a head wound unattended, and Dean had been so horrid to Sam over the past while that it was without a doubt that Sam didn't want to come to Dean about it.

Dean shoved his thoughts to the back of his mind and forced himself into hunter mode, the cold, unfeeling nature being what he really needed right now. Having Sam on his back properly now Dean went to check his little brother's stomach for more injuries. Thankfully, there were none there, but the same couldn't be said for Sam's ribs.

It just kept getting worse. The injuries kept on coming and Dean kept on wondering how Sam had managed to hide this from Dean, but more still – _why_ he had bothered to do so.

But the answer rang clear in his head: because Sam didn't feel like he could go to Dean any more. Dean had pushed Sam away and now the younger brother no longer felt like he could rely on him. And Dean hated himself for it.

…

 _ **Hey! I think this is a little shorter than the last chapter, so sorry 'bout that, but hey. In the words of Chuck – 'writing is hard!'**_

 _ **What are we thinking? Was this any good? Again, I was blown away by the feedback for the last chapter – thank you so much!**_

 _ **Quick note: For those of you who have a tumblr account, I post more fanfiction there. You can go check me out if you want, my user is 'casareyoudrunk' and I upload my spn fics weekly.**_

 _ **Thanks, and I hope you enjoyed it!**_


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